September is closing in and I can see clear to Indian Pond now; in the early morning I see the smoke from the Hanscom homestead chimney rise into the air. It is the time of year when the morning’s chill has to be eased with a small wood fire. I have the Ashley wood heater going in the kitchen and soon the warmth will spread as the kids rush down the stairs to catch the early morning school bus.

Soon they will be off and I will hold down the fort with the animals. It’s strange how I go from day to day concentrating on the inside of the farm, but not really noticing what is going on outside. Many a time I have glanced through the kitchen window and seen a new beast and wondered when it appeared on the range. It was as though Noah rounded up all the animals two by two, but there were spares and they landed in our pasture.

There was Toby, the horse, who came to live on the farm. Brian rode him the most, I think. I just know one day when we woke, he was lying on his side in the field behind the house, never to be ridden again. What about the day I arrived home from the grocery store to find the lamb..well, at that point a full grown sheep…lying on his side on the front lawn..never to bleat again.  One of my favorites was Jack, the burro. We even had a little saddle for him and somewhere there is a glorious photo of my standing next to Jack. I was wearing a very popular 1960’s paper dress. I know I never got on Jack’s back but guess I liked him well enough to have a photo taken with him. Same thing. Got up one morning and he was in the back yard as well.

By now, you are wondering what kind of curse existed around the old farm? I believe there had to be some poisonous plant the animals ate which must have killed them. I have no idea and at that time, we never thought of autopsies. I just knew every time another animal went down, I had four kids who were in the throes of grief for quite some time. Why none of the cows kicked up their hooves and perished is beyond me. But then, probably knowing cows, their stomachs are cast iron. (No, I don’t like cows..have I mentioned that?)

If there were one visitor to the farm I wish would kick up his spurs and die, it was the miserable old rooster. Now this bird came to the farm in a far more attractive state.  A friend asked if I had room for a little colored chick at Easter. Well, yes, what was one little chicken in all the flurry of our every day living. But that little colored chick slowly morphed into a big feathered bird from hell…The kids gave it a name, which I forget. Frankly, I had names for it and hopefully the kids never heard me when it was uttered.

I remember the evening the husband was gone and for some reason, I thought I should take something to the cows. I meandered out there, breathing in the sweet air of the mountain with my head somewhere in the clouds, delivered whatever I was carrying and was on my way back to the house, still with my head in the clouds. Out of nowhere I heard a screaming noise and suddenly I had a rooster attached to the back of one leg and he was hanging on with his spur. I screamed, danced a jig to rid myself of the crazed feathers to no avail. This was pure pain. In desperation, I grabbed a stick by the path and tried beating him off…I probably whacked him a dozen times and I guess the spur got tired or he became unhinged.  I had a bloody leg to show for it and swore if it happened again, I personally would do him in. He contributed nothing to the farm. I can’t remember that he even crowed to wake us up in the morning. A parasite with feathers, I always thought. I prayed for that rooster to be on his side some morning when I awoke. It never happened. We don’t have that rooster any more. I don’t know what happened to him and I don’t care. That was the end of my good deed of adopting Easter chicks.

Cats! Oh, Lord, we have barn cats. I have almost lost count of how many we have. Some come in the house to eat; others stay outside most of the time. They’re good company…don’t say much and don’t argue back. Occasionally I get a dirty look and a couple might get to a hair raising stage, but no fights.

So it is peaceful this September day. The house is quiet with all the kids gone and time passes slowly, it seems, until I get accustomed to their leaving. It is an early morning for them, having to be at the bus stop before seven. Around three this afternoon, I will be watching as they come up the hill, school papers waving in their hands to show me and tales of the day.

The dog will bark her welcome; the farm will come alive again.





It is another hot, humid day here on the Hill. Trees are standing like soldiers on review, branches listless in the  still air. Great haying weather, if one doesn’t melt. After work, the husband will take the boys and travel to High Street in West Paris, where he has agreed to hay a field for someone.

The only air conditioning is the screen door and one gets a brief wave of relief when one of the kids runs in or out, banging the door as he goes…followed by a too-late “Don’t slam the door” warning from me.

The Cushman bakery truck was here earlier and that broke up the day a little. The raspbery tarts are a must and Vance Bacon is the driver now. He is more than patient as the kids decide what the treat of the week will be.  You may have surmised that very little traffic is directed up the hill to the farm.

Last week, Francis Brooks came with his array of salt and pepper shakers, gifts of all kinds  and even cooking spices. Mark, my nephew stays with us during the day in the summer. He wandered over to the table and looked at all the display Francis had laid before our eyes. He whispered he would like to buy a set of salt and peppers for his Mom. Hmm, I thought, what a thoughtful little fellow! They were a dollar for the set so I told him to pick out what he thought his Mom would like. Took him no time at all. He chose two little mice and yes, they were very cute. I paid and put them in a bag for Mark to take home that evening.  After Francis left, I told Mark how thoughtful he was to think of his Mom and asked if she would like the set he chose. I have never seen such a devilish grin in my life before or since…”Oh yeah,” he exclaimed, “she is scared to death of mice.” What to do! I shook my head and when his Dad came to pick him up, he climbed into the truck, clutching his precious purchase in his hand. I have no idea what happened that night when he presented his gift, but fifty years later his Mom and I still laugh about her son’s thoughtfulness.

I spent another morning raking up the hay leavings in the lower field. I try to do it as soon as the dew is off and before the heat of the day sets in. I was disappointed in the field strawberries this year. Usually, up on top the pasture hill, there is a great patch and many a time I’ve spent on my knees patiently filling a little pail. Not so many this year and folks say it is the dry weather. Maybe so. Takes forever and then to hull wonders if it is worth it as they are so tiny, but you will never get the sweetness from a cultivated berry that you do with the tiny field berries.

In a few months it will be butchering time again. This isn’t one of my favorite times of year and we pretty much shield the whole procedure from the kids. I can’t say I am sorry to see the pig leave. He is nothing but trouble, getting out all the time, no matter how secure his pen. Pounding on his feed pail with a stick does  not do the trick. One got out and climbed all over Christopher Mountain before my kids organized a pig hunting party, to which their father joined after work. Right before nightfall, the pig was put back in its pen with someone holding him by his hind legs and the pig squealing so loud one would think it was dying right then and there.

A lot of kids ride up to the farm on their bikes from the village. I took a picture one day of ten bikes parked out front. It’s a good thing I have a big pitcher with a smiley face on it and plenty of Kool-Aid. By the afternoon, everyone has a mustache of one color or another as I keep replenishing the cups. The kids entertain themselves and usually its a ball game in the lower field now the hay is cut.

This summer has been a long one, it seems. Farm work is never done..if you hay, have a garden etc. The kids are in no hurry to go back to school. They find something to do every day from walking the fields, to playing with their trucks, music, reading, digging in old dump sites. Of course we have our casualties. I estimate at least one kid will have stitches from one cut or another during the season. I guess that goes with this kind of life. The doctors know me well now and if they see a car with tires blowing smoke turning into their parking lot, I swear they just dig out the needle and thread.

Only once did Ma come to the rescue. I mean, only once did I ask her. She rescued me several times. Debbie was four years old and riding a tricycle at a neighbor’s home when a dog bit her eye brow almost off. She did not do a thing to the dog, so the owner said, but apparently it was not a good day for the dog. I was working and Ma took her to Dr. Nangle , who sewed her eyebrow back on…and I am betting now people know why she has worn bangs most of her life!

Oh, so many accidents during those summer months while growing up. But, you know, I would not trade the farm for any where else in the world to raise kids…they have fields to run, kites to fly, trucks to haul in the dirt pile, trees to climb…

Dirt to get on everything, trees to fall from, stone walls to land on…life gets so exciting sometimes here on the hill.

Time for me to see if I can open one of these old windows and let the air conditioning in a bit more~~



Stolen Moments

It is late August here on the farm.  The crickets lull us to sleep at night and heavy fog introduces us to most days.  I’ve taken the four kids to JJNewberry’s in Norway and got the usual pencil boxes and school supplies. It won’t be long now before they will be rising early in the morning to trudge down the hill to the bus “stop”.  Earlier I ordered their clothes from Alden’s Catalog, with each one telling me the color he preferred.  Right now, Alan and Gary are off digging in one of the many dump sites on the land ( looking for bottles, I am told), Debbie is in her room reading and Brian is once again trying to do damage control in my little flower bed from the onslaught of cow hooves.

As I’ve said before, cows and I have never been on a friendly basis. I’ll admit to admiring one little Jersey cow that Brian had, as it was quiet and had a pretty face. The others just wander around on gawky legs, chewing the cud and breaking down fences. I have never seen an animal as stubborn as a cow.

I’m not the only one! No siree! Ma is not fond of them at all. I remember her trying to take clothes off the line one day, just trying to help me, minding her own business and out came a cow..right through the fence..toward her. Well, let me tell you, she not only dislikes them, she is afraid of them. Looking quickly about her, she found the only weapon available to ward off the beast. She stood, shrieking, holding a ladder from the back of the boys’ big fire truck. Ma stared the cow down, who was just chewing and standing there, and finally after a couple cracks on the backside from the fire engine ladder, it turned and ambled back across the downed fence. Have you ever noticed that cows just amble?  They have that superior attitude that almost amazes me and infuriates at the same time.

The plum tree didn’t do much this year..maybe a half dozen, but it has been said the old tree is forever old and can’t be expected to gift us with much.  The apple tree in the front yard serves as just that: one points out that we have an apple tree in our front yard. There has never been an apple from those limbs that one could take and declare delicious. I remember a few years ago gathering some and making apple sauce. I think it must have taken a pound of sugar to make it edible.

The potatoes were good this year and after they were dug and dried in the sun, the kids and I filled a spot in the cellar, so we should be fixed for the winter.  We had our fill of cukes and peas. The hail storm earlier in the summer got a lot of tomatoes, but we had enough to satisfy us all. There were so many green tomatoes left that last week I brought a bunch in to make green tomato pickles. One night I dug out the big container and made layers of the pickles, onions, etc. and let it set overnight. The next day the smell was heavenly and the old farm just about raised from its footings. I could eat a dish of them with bread and butter and call it a meal.

Soon the leaves will start changing and as I look down towards Indian Pond, I know there will be a blaze of beauty and slowly the leaves will blow off , leaving us a bleak mountain for a few months.

I like sitting here on the porch and mulling over the summer events..not that much happens here on the hill. Yet, when you’re on a farm, something does happen every day.  My cheese cloth strainer is blowing on the porch line next to me. It is a constant reminder of my 5 a.m. rising and waiting for the husband to bring the morning’s milk. While he is in the barn, I fix his breakfast and when the milk comes in, I switch gears to automatic and strain all the milk and get it in bottles. Raw milk! The kids drink it and I use it for everything but I read so much material that it is bad for drinking etc. Well, the kids seem healthy and the Lord knows I sterilize everything I use. So far, so good. I wonder if we believed everything written if we would dare get out of bed in the morning.

Yesterday, I took the old pick up down in the lower field and raked up hay the husband had cut. One look at the sky and I thought we might have rain. After I raked it, I pitched it on the back of the truck, praying I wouldn’t have a snake slither out. My prayers were answered and I backed the old truck , full of hay, into the garage for the husband to pitch off when he finds the time.

I hate to think of winter coming. It’s hard to heat the old farm with all its drafty corners and windows that have loosened over the years. Someone told me that my Grandfather Libby helped plaster and lathe the walls when the farm was built. That could be. I wish he had put in a lot of insulation at the same time.

The old wood furnace in the cellar must have come over on the Mayflower. It is a huge thing, and I have to be careful not to let the fire blaze too much as the chimney goes straight through the attic. Usually my brothers and friends help cut up the fire wood for the winter and the boys carry it in after school to fill the wood box. After that, the never ending chore of watering the cows awaits them. I fill the pails and they carry along the snowy path I’ve shoveled while they are in school.

But enough thinking of the winter ahead! Today the sky is a bright blue with one cloud resembling Richard Nixon and that seems to drift at a slow pace today. It is about 78 degrees with a light breeze kissing my face every few minutes.

It is stolen moments like this that keeps the spirit going.


When Johnny Comes Marching Home

It is the mid-sixties and Rowe Hill is still the sleepy little hamlet. Wilmer Bryant milks his cows morning and night; Eunice Brooks makes her delicious butter every week; Winnie Hanscom and I exchange news and recipes on the telephone. Sun comes up in the morning and goes down in the evening and so the days go.

It is a different story outside our little world; the war in Viet Nam is raging and several of our young men from the village of Bryant Pond are in that country, so unlike their little home town.

Every morning the children of Rowe Hill gather at the rustic “bus stop” at the bottom of our driveway, awaiting the bus to carry them away for another day at the local schools. Among them are the “kids” from on top of the hill, who have to walk the distance no matter the weather.  One of the “kids” is older than the others, but he seems to delight in standing with the youngsters. My four come home with tales of “John saying this ” and “John saying that” and particularly, in the winter time, how he divides the kids into teams for snowball fights before the bus arrives. Oh, it is so much more fun now that John is waiting at the bus stop with them each day.

This was pretty much the same conversation each day upon their arrival home. Then came the time when one of the four remarked, “John isn’t at the bus stop any more.” I figured perhaps he had moved or had decided not to attend school any more and let it pass in the business of the day. The second time it was mentioned I asked if anyone knew where John had gone. “Oh, he went in the Army,”  one offered.

Not another one, I voiced silently. Later on,over the crank phone I consulted with Winnie down over the hill, who confirmed that she had heard John had enlisted. 

Months passed, another school year gone and September rolled around again. The questions began. “Do you think John will be at the bus stop this year?”  “I don’t think so.” Then a chorus of “why?” echoed around the farm kitchen.

This was new territory for me. I could explain pretty much any farm life questions, but how to explain why their friend was still away. I tried but there were still four concerned faces when they left for school that first morning.

Gradually the questions faded; another year went by and apparently the four had decided that John left and would never be there for another snowball fight. Meanwhile, the little hamlet was whispering that John was missing in action in Viet Nam. At this point, the four had grown to an age where they understood what it meant to be at war and that John was fighting, and so I broke the news to them gently and told them we had to pray that he would be coming home soon.

Months roll into years; years into decades and I never heard the status of John…was he still missing; had he been killed…who knew.

Fast forward forty years.  Alan, the youngest of the four, traveled with his step-father to Washington, DC, to see the Fourth of July fireworks. As always, when they traveled, they sought out other interesting things.

Two days after returning home, Alan came to me. “We visited the Viet Nam Wall, Mum.” 

I asked what his impression was of the Wall. “I found him, I found John.” It took a minute for me to comprehend what he was saying. ” I found his name, Mum.  John Brooks. I found John.”

The grown man had not forgotten. He found his childhood friend at last…among so many other names on the Wall. Johnny would never come marching home, but he stayed in the hearts of everyone who knew him.

(I never knew the official ending to John’s story. I do know that for years relatives could not find out what happened to him. May he rest in peace.)



Oh what a glorious June day in 1961.  Wild strawberries lay in wait for my little lard bucket, little birds were breaking their shells and timidly trying their wings for the first time. A wave of courage washed over me watching their little feathers lift in the wind and I guess I thought it was time for me to do the same thing. Why else would I even entertain the thought of getting a drivers license at this particular time? I had three children, the oldest not quite four years old and I was shaped like a root beer barrel. Indeed! I was ready to bring child #4 into the world in a matter of..well, let’s say…a week or two.

It started innocently enough a few weeks earlier when my friend, Shirley Morse, came on the Hill and offered to ride along as I toured one side of the mountain. Winnie Hanscom did her share by watching my three youngsters during these outings and we went up and down, up and down one side of the mountain, using the top of the hill for the turn-around. This remained a secret from the husband. No need for advice from him. Well, a couple years earlier, he gave me one driving lesson, resulting in his little coupe setting on top of the stone wall when he did not make it clear what gear I should leave the little gray marvel in and it took off on its own..backwards down the hill and found its own resting place. I decided remaining silent on this crusade was the thing to do.

The day came..and all I envisioned was the steep hill to the courthouse in South Paris. Tales of horror had come to me over the years and I dreaded that so much. Well, there I was, waddling toward the very lucky fellow who was going to be riding with me. I swear I saw his eyes buzz around in a circular motion when he saw the very pregnant woman who was going to “try” to get behind the wheel. Have to give him credit..he spied a penny on the floorboards and told me to save it toward a mink coat. I don’t know if he was trying to calm me or himself down.

I remember driving out of the yard and down a side street and suddenly there I Market Square, the land of confusion, at the time. My passenger told me to stop and park. Was he kidding? I only park pointed in; I don’t do square parking. I put that in simple terms because that was the way I was thinking. There was no place on Rowe Hill to practice parallel parking. I stopped; put the gear in reverse, turned the wheels ( I think). No go. Second time and my belly was scraping the steering wheel. No go. Merrill Transport trucks are now lining up behind me. I can feel sweat beading on the forehead. Nice time to go in labor, I thought. I had absolutely no clue. One more time. Did everything I had read about this absolutely dumb way of parking. Ah ha!! I got the vehicle where it belonged..almost. There was a little metal “ping” and I halted immediately. My passenger told me that was enough and we would head back to “town”. I thought we were going to make a tour of Norway. Who knew! A sudden scream from the passenger side told me that I was to now attempt the dreaded steep hill. OK. Hold on!  Got half way up there and stopped. Got the vehicle in the right gear and by golly, I took that car right up the hill without one tiny slip back. 

The good man crawled out the car at the top of the hill and informed me I now had a drivers license. Frankly I could not believe it. He did add,”The next time you park, don’t use the sound system.”  Hmm..a little sarcasm on his part, but I had the paper in hand.

Before the husband left for work that early morning, I decided it was time to let him know what was going on..well, in case, I had an accident and he came home to find me in casts and bandages. He told me if I got the license to come home, drive the 1957 Ford station wagon to Bethel, get two bags of grain and get them home.

My maiden voyage was just that. A trip to Bethel and back, two bags of grain in the rear, two medium sized tots sitting on the back seat singing and chattering, one baby secured in a car seat and one big root beer barrel behind the wheel.

Now I knew exactly how those little baby birds felt on their first flight. Freedom!!! (But I had a lot more noise on mine….)







Remembering Rowe Hill

It isn’t there anymore…the Rowe Hill I knew and loved back in the Sixties and Seventies. Oh, there are traces …but it isn’t the same.

There were about seven houses, eight if one counted the summer home belonging to Ethel E. Hobbs.  I should count my grandparents’ home, although the house belonged to someone else by the time I reached Rowe Hill.   Below their home was the Emery household, which I remember being owned by  “Grammy ” Record when I was very young. I remember her as being very kind and sending me a dollar when I received some award, but other than that, I have no knowledge of her family.

Let’s start at the very top of the mountain . My cousin, Leland Farr bought the home there and turned it into his retreat when not working. If one began the journey down Sheepskin Bog Road there was the Brooks farm. What a lovely family.

We bought butter from Eunice who , I swear, made the finest butter around ( not counting my Gram Martin’s of course). She always had a ready smile. One of the most simple  but unbelievably beautiful sights I ever witnessed , was to be near the road one day when Mont and Eunice rode by in their horse and buggy. Why has that scene not vanished from my memory bank?

During my newspaper days, I had the opportunity to visit the Brooks farm and talk to Bernard, the oldest son. He had a collection of the alphabet …not unusual, you say? Well, during his outings, he had found twigs in the shape of each letter until he had the complete alphabet. I think of Bernard today, on the farm still, and wonder if he still has that collection.

Down the hill a bit, was the Sumner home. The walls fairly burst with all the children and well behaved children they were. Myrtle and Lee Sumner had the most wonderful family and I often wondered how Myrtle ever kept track of their eleven children. I always remember Sammy coming to the farm to say hello and I had something on the stove simmering. He said, Well, it smells good and looks good, but will it taste good?” He had a beautiful smile and a great sense of humor. After I started working for the newspapers, Myrtle called me each Sunday evening with news of the family visiting so we had an opportunity to chat.

There was the Colby Ring homestead, the very place my brother Curt and I “got religion”. At that point, Stella and Colby had moved and over the years several took up residence for awhile. Finally, the Powers family bought it for a summer home. Now, I have no idea who lives there.

Not far from my driveway sat the Bryant/Hanscom home. Wilmer and his mother, “Maggie” lived downstairs for years with Ray and Winnie living in an apartment upstairs. By the time I moved to Rowe Hill, Wilmer, Ray and Winnie all lived downstairs.  Oh, I would love a transcript of the phone calls between Winnie and me over the years. We exchanged news, recipes and weather reports along with everything else imaginable.

At the time, a little log cabin still stood at the top of ( appropriately named) Log Cabin Hill. In the “olden” days I guess it was rather a social gathering place with music or so I am told. During my tenure on Rowe Hill, that slowly melted into the ground.

There was the “little field” where Wilmer Bryant planted cucumbers for the factory in South Paris and over the years it was sold and a house erected.

As I knew it, Rowe Hill primarily consisted of the Brooks, Sumner, Hanscom and sometimes the Emery families. It was a close knit community . If one household was in need, others knew it and took up the cause. We exchanged everything from food to clothing.  If Winnie had something cooked up that I loved ( like her glazed donuts) I would swap a pound or two of pork chops out of my freezer from butchering time. If someone needed a ride to  a doctor’s appointment, then one of the neighbors knew and offered.

Over the years, a few little homes went up; some people stayed, but more than likely moved after a few months. It was mostly..the Brooks, Sumners, Hanscoms and the Dunhams fending for themselves and helping each other.

The last time I rode over the Hill, my head swiveled like I was watching a tennis match. Who lives there, I kept asking, my daughter the driver.  Her answer was always the same. “Darn if I know..”

Nope, it isn’t the same. But does anything ever really stay the same? I am so glad I remember the Rowe Hill that was.



Most country kids, back in the Sixties, manufactured their own games and new toys were limited to Christmas and birthdays. Their fertile imagination carried them wherever they wanted to go and many days were spent on hands and knees in the sand pile with beat up trucks and cars.

However, there was always the little wish that he would be the one to get the prize in the cereal box. Hands disappeared out of sight searching before emptying the goods into the plastic bowl. The siblings did not mind that their breakfast had been manhandled before it got to them. Each morning was a battle to see who got the box first to start the “pawing” and after the prize was eventually found, all interest was lost . Remember the chintzy little card or whatever encased in such tough cellophane that a pair of kitchen scissors was needed?

Cracker Jacks was not necessarily an item that my four were crazy about, but there was always the prize nestled in that box with the sailor boy saluting.  As the years went by, the prizes got smaller and far worse…but then perhaps their expectations had grown too big.

They watched their mother buy soap detergent to get dish towels and glass ware so of course, it was expected that every box at the grocery store should have something mysterious hidden within.

It was about this time that I discovered one could get refunds for boxtops and labels. Well, now, it was my time to rejoice.  The average refund was .25 and what  a joy to see those quarters arrive in the mailbox!  Soon I found that one could also get premiums for those same boxtops and labels. It was a common sight to see my body flung between an outstretched hand and the wastebasket. Another big rr–iii–p and the label was mine.

One June afternoon, the four arrived home and my heart just did a jig with the surprise I had in store.  All lunch boxes were dumped on the kitchen table and I emerged with my prizes.  They watched, with open mouths, as I dumped four heaps of sticks and plastic down on the porch.

“There you go,” I announced  and readied myself with the instruction sheet. Within a few minutes, each one was holding a kite, ready to hoist it in the spring breeze .  Down to the lower field, we marched, my camera in hand, kites in their hands.

Soon the wind picked up and aloft against the beautiful blue sky were the kites emblazoned with the Jolly Green Giant on each.  They ate the canned veggies and were now reaping the rewards. 

I wish I still had the photo I took that day..the kites so high that even the Giant had disappeared. As my son, Gary, said recently …when he looks at the photo of just the kites and no one in the photo, he remembers thinking that he could fly just as high as the kites and do whatever he wanted to do in life.  Well, that might not be verbatim, but it was the jist of what he was saying.

It was such a simple thing to do…back in a more simple time. Coloring books with advertisements, a Christmas pin for .25 and a boxtop, and if you wanted to think big, S & H green stamps , lick them and stick them in a book and eventually, your son had his own bike.

I don’t do boxtops and labels any more….but I would, if I had those four young kids back again and a wide open field with a June breeze.